"All that is left to us is our trust in Him," murmured the wife and
mother. Her voice, though so low as to be almost a whisper, was firm.
She realized, as she spoke, how much of bitterness was in the parting
hours of the dying one, and she felt that duty required her to sustain
him, so far as she had the strength to do so. And so she nerved her
woman's heart, almost breaking as it was, to bear and hide her own
sorrows, while she strove to comfort and strengthen the failing spirit
of her husband.

"God is good," said she, after a brief silence, during which she was
striving for the mastery over her weakness. As she spoke, she leaned
over the sick man, and looked at him lovingly, and with the smile of
an angel on her countenance.

"Yes, God is good, Fanny. Have we not proved this, again and again?"
was returned, a feeble light coming into the speaker's pale face.

"A thousand times, dear! a thousand times!" said the wife, earnestly.
"He is infinite in his goodness, and we are his children."

"Yes, his children," was the whispered response. And over and over
again he repeated the words, "His children;" his voice falling lower
and lower each time, until at length his eyes closed, and his in-going
thought found no longer an utterance.

Twilight had come. The deepening shadows were fast obscuring all
objects in the sick-chamber, where silence reigned, profound almost as
death.

"He sleeps," whispered the wife, as she softly raised herself from